Rise of the Formidable Ex-wife (Lucia and Alex) novel Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Monica’s diary was small. Purple. With a lock that didn’t work anymore. She kept it under her mattress during the day. Under the loose floorboard at night.

She wrote in it every evening. After dinner. After homework. After everyone else went to their rooms. *May 3rd*

*Margaret yelled at me today because I forgot to put my shoes away. She said Mom never taught us proper organization. That we’re all slobs because of her. But I remember Mom teaching us to clean. She made it a game. We used to race to see who could pick up fastest. Margaret doesn’t make it a game. She just yells.* Monica set down her pen. Listened. Made sure no one was coming.

The house was different now. Quiet in a bad way. Like everyone was holding their breath. Waiting for something.

She picked up the pen again.

*I think I made a mistake. At the party. Choosing Dad. Laughing when everyone else did. I didn’t really think Mom would leave. I thought she’d fight back. Say something. Prove everyone wrong.*

*But she just. Left.*

*And now Margaret is here. And everything is wrong.*

Monica closed the diary. Hid it back under the floorboard. Pulled out a piece of notebook paper.

She’d been writing letters. To her mother. Letters she’d never send. Letters she didn’t know where to send. But writing them helped. Made her feel less. Less alone.

*Dear Mom,*

*I’m sorry. I know I said that before. In the other letters. But I need to say it again. I’m sorry for laughing. For choosing Dad. For not stopping them.*

*Margaret threw away my watercolors today. Said they were taking up too much space. But they weren’t. They were in my closet. In my room. My space.*

*She said I’m wasting time on childish hobbies. That I should focus on practical activities. Like. Like what?! don’t even know what that means.*

*I miss you. I miss how you used to sit with me while I painted. How you never said it was childish. How you helped me mix colors to get them just right.*

*Where are you? Are you okay? Do you think about us?*

*Do you hate me?*

*Love, Monica*

She folded the letter. Added it to the stack under the floorboard. Seventeen letters now. All unsent. All saying the same thing.

Sorry. Miss you. Come back.

A knock on the door.

Monica shoved the floorboard back. Kicked her rug over it.

“Come in.”

Margaret opened the door. Hair perfect. Makeup perfect. Smile perfect and cold.

“Still awake?”

“Just finishing homework.”

Margaret’s eyes swept the room. Looking. Always looking. “Your room is a mess.”

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Chapter 27

Monica looked around. A few books on her desk. Her backpack on the floor. One sweatshirt on her chair. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s unacceptable. Clean it. Now. Before bed.”

“But it’s already ten.”

“Then you should have cleaned it earlier. Your mother may have let you live like an animal. I won’t.”

After she left. Monica picked up the sweatshirt. Put her backpack in the closet. Straightened the books. Her room looked exactly the same. But cleaner somehow wouldn’t have mattered. Margaret would find something wrong anyway.

The next day at school. Art class. Her favorite. The only place that still felt. Normal.

“Great work, Monica,” Ms. Sam said. Looking at her charcoal drawing. A landscape. Mountains. Sky. Birds.

“Thanks.”

“Have you thought about entering the spring exhibition? This would be perfect.”

Monica hesitated. “I don’t know. My. My stepmom doesn’t really. She doesn’t think art is important.”

Ms. Sam frowned. “Art is very important. It’s expression. Communication. Who you are.”

Who you are. Monica wasn’t sure who that was anymore.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

That evening. Dinner. Margaret had made a big production. Candles. Fancy plates. Food from the new caterer. “How was everyone’s day?” Marco asked. Not looking up from his phone.

“Fine,” Ria said. Picking at her salad. Probably worried about calories. Margaret had commented on her eating three times this week.

“Good,” Lucas muttered. Also on his phone.

“Monica?” Marco glanced up. Briefly.

“Ms. Sam wants me to enter the spring art exhibition.”

“That’s nice, honey.”

Margaret set down her fork. “An art exhibition? At school?”

“Yes. Students submit work. Parents come see it. It’s a big deal.”

“How big?”

“I don’t know. Big. Ms. Sam says I have a good chance of winning my category.”

“Winning what? A ribbon? A certificate?” Margaret’s voice was light. Pleasant. But Monica heard the edge.” What’s the practical benefit?”

“1. I don’t know. It’s just. It’s an honor.”

“An honor.” Margaret smiled. “Honey, honors don’t matter unless they lead somewhere. College applications. Scholarships. Real opportunities. Not ribbons for pretty pictures.”

“But Mom always said…”

“Your mother isn’t here. And when she was, she filled your head with nonsense. Childish dreams. Unrealistic expectations.” Margaret turned to Marco. “Don’t you agree, darling? We need to focus on practical skills. Things that matter.”

Marco looked uncomfortable. “Art can be practical. Some people make careers…”

“Some people. Very few people. The vast majority of artists starve. I’m trying to protect Monica from wasting years pursuing mediocrity.”

Mediocrity. The word Marco had used about their mother. About seventeen years of marriage.

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Chapter 27

Now Margaret was using it about Monica’s art.

“My teacher says I’m talented,” Monica said. Voice small.

“Teachers say that to everyone. To avoid hurting feelings. But talent without commercial viability is just. Just a hobby. A waste of time.”

Monica put down her fork. “May I be excused?”

“You haven’t finished eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then you’ll sit here until you are. We don’t waste food in this house.”

They sat in silence. Monica staring at her plate. Margaret eating with perfect posture. Marco on his phone. Ria and Lucas avoiding eye contact.

This wasn’t a family. This was. Something else. Something wrong.

Later. In her room. Monica pulled out her diary.

*May 7th*

*Margaret says my art is mediocre. Says I’m wasting time. Says Mom filled my head with nonsense.*

*But I remember Mom looking at my drawings. Really looking. Asking questions. What made you choose that color? Why did you put the tree there? She cared about why I made choices. Not whether they’d lead to scholarships.*

*I miss that. Miss someone caring about the why.*

The next week. Monica finished her piece for the exhibition. A portrait. Her mother’s face. From memory. From the photo she kept hidden in her journal.

She knew it was risky. Knew Margaret might see it. Might get angry.

But she didn’t care. This was hers. Her art. Her feelings. Her mother.

She submitted it. Titled it “Gone.”

Ms. Chen looked at it for a long time. “This is beautiful, Monica. And brave. Is this your mother?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. About. About what happened. I heard she. That she left.”

“Yeah.”

“This captures something. Something real. Pain maybe. Or love. Or both.”

Both. That felt right.

The exhibition was Friday evening. Monica brought home the invitation. Left it on the kitchen counter for her father to see.

Margaret found it first.

“What’s this?”

“Invitation to the art exhibition. At school. Friday.”

Margaret read it. “You entered anyway. After I said it was a waste of time.”

“Ms. Chen said I should. She thinks I have talent.”

“Of course she does. She’s a teacher. Encouragement is her job. Reality is mine.” Margaret crumpled the invitation. Threw it away. “We won’t be attending.”

“But. But Dad said…”

“Your father is busy. Working. Trying to save his company from collapse. He doesn’t have time for school exhibitions.”

“It’s one evening.”

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Chapter 27

“One evening he needs to spend fixing the mess your mother created by abandoning this family.”

Monica’s hands clenched. “She didn’t create a mess. We did. We chose Dad. We laughed at her. We drove her away.”

The words came out before she could stop them.

Margaret’s face went cold. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I just. I just think maybe we were wrong. Maybe we shouldn’t have…

“Shouldn’t have what? Chosen your father over a woman who clearly didn’t want you? Who left without fighting? Who abandoned three children because her feelings were hurt?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Isn’t it? She left, Monica. She chose to go. No one forced her. She could have stayed. Could have fought. Could have been an actual mother.” Margaret stepped closer. “But she wasn’t strong enough. Wasn’t good enough. Just like you’re not good enough at art to waste time on it.”

The comparison hit like a slap.

“Your mother was mediocre at everything. Marriage. Motherhood. Life. And you. You’re unfortunately plain like her. Ordinary. Destined for ordinary things.” Margaret’s smile was sharp. Cruel. “Unless you listen to me. Unless you let me guide you away from her mistakes.”

Monica couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

“No exhibition,” Margaret said. “And no more art supplies. They’re a distraction. A waste. Just like she was.” She left. Closed the door. Locked it from outside.

Monica heard the click. Heard Margaret’s heels on the hallway floor. Heard her father’s door open. Close. Muffled voices.

She was locked in. Like a prisoner. Like a child being punished.

For what? For wanting to honor her mother? For having feelings? For being herself?

Monica went to her closet. Pulled out her art supply box. The one her mother had given her two Christmases ago. Watercolors. Brushes. Special paper. Charcoal pencils.

She opened it. Looked at everything. Remembered her mother helping her choose colors. Explaining techniques. Sitting beside her for hours. Just being there.

The door unlocked. Opened. Margaret stood there. Holding a garbage bag.

“Give them to me.”

“What?”

“The art supplies. All of them. Now.”

“No. These were from Mom. They’re mine.”

“Nothing in this house is yours. Everything here belongs to your father. And by extension. To me.” Margaret stepped inside. Grabbed the box. Started throwing things in the bag. Paints. Brushes. Sketchbooks filled with drawings. Everything.

“Stop! Please! Those are mine!”

“They’re trash. Just like your obsession with that woman. Just like your mediocre talent.”

She took the bag. Left. Came back for the easel. The canvas. The pencils on Monica’s desk.

All of it. Gone. In two trips.

Monica stood in her room. Empty now. Stripped.

That night. She wrote in her diary with shaking hands.

*May 15th*

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Chapter 27

*She threw them away. All of it. Everything Mom gave me. Everything I made. Everything.*

*She called me plain. Called me ordinary. Called me mediocre. Like Mom.*

*I hate her. I hate Dad for letting this happen. I hate Ria for not caring. I hate Lucas for staying silent.*

*But mostly. Mostly I hate myself. For choosing them. For thinking this was better. For believing their lies about Mom.*

*I was wrong. We were all wrong.*

*And now I can’t fix it. Can’t find her. Can’t say sorry.*

*I’m trapped here. With her. With them. With this.*

*And Mom is gone.*

Three days later. School. Mother’s Day project. Make a card. A gift. Something for your mother.

Monica made one anyway. For her real mother. Not Margaret. Paper flowers. Painted with borrowed supplies from Ms. Chen. A card with a drawing. Her and her mom. Together. Smiling.

She brought it home. Hid it in her backpack. Waiting for the right moment to. To what? Mail it somewhere? Keep it forever? She didn’t know.

Margaret found it. Going through Monica’s room while she was at school. Looking for. Monica didn’t even know what.

When Monica came home. Margaret was waiting. Holding the card. The flowers.

“What is this?”

“A Mother’s Day gift. For the project at school.”

“For me?”

Monica hesitated. Should she lie? Would that be easier?

“No. For. For my mom. My real mom.”

Margaret’s face went hard. “I’m not your mother.”

“I know. That’s why…”

“And clearly your real mother doesn’t want to be either. Or she’d be here. Instead of wherever she ran to.”

She tore the card. Right down the middle. Then again. And again. Pieces falling like snow.

Crushed the flowers. Tissue paper crumpling. Colors smearing.

Threw it all in Monica’s face.

“Clean this up. All of it. And stop living in fantasies. Your mother is gone. She left you. Get over it.”

That night. Monica lay in bed. Lights off. Door closed.

She pulled out her journal. The one hiding spot Margaret hadn’t found. Yet.

Inside. Tucked between pages. The photo. Her mother. Smiling. Holding baby Monica at the hospital. The day she was born.

The only picture left. The only proof that her mother had loved her once. Had wanted her once. Had been there. Monica pressed it to her chest. Let herself cry. Quiet. Muffled by her pillow.

So no one would hear. So Margaret wouldn’t come back. Wouldn’t find this too. Wouldn’t destroy the last piece she had.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. To the photo. To her mother. To herself. “I’m so sorry. I was wrong. We were all wrong. Please. Please don’t hate me. Please come back. Please.”

But her mother wasn’t there. Wasn’t anywhere. Was gone.

And Monica was alone. In a house that wasn’t home. With people who weren’t family. Being someone she didn‘ t recognize.

5/6

Chapter 23

Plain. Ordinary. Mediocre.

Just like her mother. The woman she’d helped destroy.

The woman she missed more than breathing.

The woman who was never coming back.

Monica cried until she had nothing left. Until exhaustion pulled her under. Until sleep took the pain away. Temporarily.

The photo stayed clutched in her hand. Crumpled now. Tear–stained. But there.

Her mother’s face. Smiling. Loving. There.

Even if the real woman wasn’t.

Even if she never would be again.

The photo was all Monica had left.

And she was terrified. Absolutely terrified. That someday. Margaret would find this too.

And then she’d have nothing.

Not even this.

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